


Never Trust Water

by Vae



Category: Lucifer Box - Gatiss
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-02
Updated: 2010-01-02
Packaged: 2017-10-05 15:42:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/43287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vae/pseuds/Vae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How I adored Italy, back in those innocent days. Well, I call them innocent, although obviously my personal innocence was long gone and good riddance to it, but my point is - Italy, pearl of the Mediterranean, pinnacle of civilisation!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Never Trust Water

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [Random Title Generator challenge](http://ana-grrl.livejournal.com/199860.html), and I really don't expect anyone at all to be familiar with these characters since the fandom appears to be miniscule, if not non-existent. Many thanks to Terryl for nurturing this through to completion and doing an excellent beta, and to Glim for a certain character.

Ah, Italy! How I adored Italy, back in those innocent days. Well, I call them innocent, although obviously my personal innocence was long gone and good riddance to it, but my point is - Italy, pearl of the Mediterranean, pinnacle of civilisation! I have always nurtured a fondness for the passionate nature of the Italians, the importance they rightly place upon one's appearance and apparel, and upon the indulgence of every imaginable appetite with the most delicious morsels.

Of course, every pearl is formed around a heart of purest dross, layers of beauty disguising the irritating imperfection. For Italy's lustrous pearl, that dross was Venice.

I do not deny that, to all appearances, Venice is a beautiful city, complete with lofty architecture and delightfully impudent gondoliers, and on one memorable occasion I had found myself engulfed by the splendid licentiousness of their carnival, with most satisfactory consequences. However, these advantages cannot outweigh the inescapable and undeniable truth that Venice stinks. The very air carries the stench of human effluvia. Dampness permeates every building until even one's wardrobe commences to rot, and the charm of the canals fades rapidly when attempting to find a route between San Marco and the Rialto without risking wet feet.

The greater part of my regard for Caravaggio is founded on the fact that his glorious Venetian scenes spare me the nuisance of having to return to Venice myself, to rediscover that romance utterly overturned by the pervading aroma of decay, like some sodden charnel house. I have rarely encountered such an unpleasantly rotten atmosphere, even in the corpse-deifying cults of the colonials.

Still, a chap has to work for a living, and so, Charles Jackpot and I took ourselves to Venice. Charlie took care of the packing, naturally, except for the specialist equipment that I prefer to attend to personally. It has been previously noted that yours truly is no sailor, and I am happy to report that I recall very little of the journey, only returning to full awareness as the sunlight streamed impertinently through the drapes of my room at the Hotel Danieli. Charlie was draped equally impertinently across the bed next to me, employing his extraordinary cat-like ability to take up far more space than his mass would seem to account for. For this impertinence, I was obliged to wake him, convince him thoroughly and delightfully of my complete recovery from the voyage, and send him in search of rooms where I could ply my trade.

***

In a matter of mere days, I established a routine for my Venetian sojourn. My mornings began, as a general rule, with cappuccino and rolls, provided (with some élan, it must be admitted, Charlie was developing a most agreeably cosmopolitan air) at an appropriately civilised hour. This was followed by a leisurely hour or two bathing and selecting suitable clothing for the day from my elegant and extensive wardrobe, after which I would while away the afternoon at the Caffe Florian with my sketchbook. It was while thus engaged that I first encountered the Contessa di Borghese.

Lissavetta Giuliana di Borghese was, quite simply, a vision of breathtaking loveliness. Her body and carriage displayed the svelte elegance so beloved of Beardsley and Mucha, a cloud of radiant golden curls peeped winsomely from beneath the sweeping brim of her hat, and her face was simple, symmetrical perfection. The gilt hair and porcelain complexion, rare enough anywhere, were particularly stunning amidst Italy's darker beauties, and when combined with dainty hands, a silvery laugh, low, melodic voice and large, expressive, velvet brown eyes, there was really no chance that I would be able to resist her charms.

But how to approach her? My dear and socially well-connected chum Christopher was thousands of miles away, and even he would find it awkward to engineer an introduction to this paragon from Blighty's distant and foggy shores. My limited circle of Venetian acquaintances would be of no use to me here, and applying to the lady's husband was, even here, out of the question, since he'd been obliging enough to pass on to his eternal reward six months previously. Yet La Serenissima appeared, by some miracle, to be smiling on me. On my third sighting of the lady, a breath of wind (carrying the eternal reek of Venice's canals) lifted her hat off her head, freeing a tumble of blonde curls, and dropped it neatly onto my table next to my second latte. The contessa's dainty hands flew to her head, she gave a gentle cry of dismay, and those beauteous eyes turned in my direction.

I immediately sprang to my feet, retrieving the errant hat, and offered her a gallant bow and my most charming smile. "Madonna, please, do allow me..."

It occurred to me slightly too late that she might not comprehend English, and I began to repeat my request in perfect Italian, but the gracious creature waved ethereal fingers at me, while a becoming colour suffused her perfect cheeks. "No, no, per favore, forgeeve me, signore...?"

"Box," I supplied helpfully, capturing her hand and raising it to my lips. Her gloves were of the finest satin, the same pale blue as the afternoon sky, and smooth under my fingers, warm with the heat of her skin, hidden from me by the thin fabric. "Lucifer Box."

Long, sooty-dark lashes swept ivory cheeks, and she bobbed an enchanting half-curtsey. "Signore Lucifer Box. I am Lissavetta di Borghese, and you...you are...artist?"

"I have that honour," I confessed, reluctantly surrendering her fingers and tendering her hat in exchange.

"Ees it permit...?" Lovely Lissavetta accepted her hat, fingertips brushing mine and gifting me a thrill of giddy delight, gesturing towards my sketch book.

Eager to grasp the opportunity that fate had so considerately granted me, I pulled out a chair in invitation and presented my humble efforts. They were mere preliminary sketches and yet, I flatter myself, enough to hint at the extent of my considerable talents. Studies of the inevitable bridges mingled with faces that had caught my fancy as I perused the idlers who crowded out the Piazza San Marco each afternoon. I snapped my fingers for a waiter, ordered her a pressé, and then settled back to observe the contessa absorbing my work. White teeth caught at the fullness of her bottom lip as she turned the pages, and interest stirred in my exquisitely cut trousers.

"You have great gift," she pronounced at length, caressing the morocco of my sketch book as it lay in her lap. I envied it immensely. "And later, you will paint...how you call...countryscape?"

My inherent distaste for landscapes was mollified by her delightful accent and lingo twisting, and I managed a smile at the suggestion. "No... no, madonna, I am a portraitist. I paint people and please, if you would allow me to attempt to record your beauty for those not fortunate enough to look upon it, you would do me a great honour."

Blonde brows drew together in the tiniest, prettiest frown as she interpreted my words, but my attempt to translate for her resulted in her little fingers pressing against my mouth to prevent me. Oh, heaven! "You wish to paint me?" she queried, blushing again.

Taking her hand to lift it from my lips, I gazed into the warm, liquid depths of her glorious eyes. "I do."

***

The next morning saw the arrival of a perfumed note, scripted in a flowing, elegant hand on pale blue notepaper. I read it through twice, refolded it painstakingly along the original crease lines, and tucked it into the pocket in the front of my sketchbook. "Charlie?"

He appeared in the doorway of the room I was using as a studio, and slouched against the frame, hands shoved into his pockets. It was really a most inappropriate posture for a servant to hold, but then, Charlie was a most inappropriate servant. It was why he had remained in my service for so long. I do so love inappropriateness in my subordinates.

"The Contessa di Borghese will be visiting this afternoon," I informed him, glancing around the detritus that had accumulated in the few days I had been domiciled in the Palazzo Labia. "I shall need you to make everything ready for her."

"Including you, I s'pose," he growled, not moving. The boy really was slow to learn the 'servant' part of his duties as my manservant.

"Oh, naturally," I agreed carelessly. "The studio first, though. The contessa will require a fresh canvas, my brushes cleaned, my pencils sharpened, fresh charcoal...and refreshments." I paused, frowning, before I remembered myself and smoothed my expression. Frowning can cause terrible lines to the face, and a face like mine should never be imperilled by casual frowns. "Delilah _has_ advised you on refreshments?"

Withdrawing one hand from his trousers, Charlie appeared to be studying his rather filthy fingernails. "Yeah."

"Well, then, what are you waiting for? Get started," I instructed, somewhat testily, as I brushed past him on my way out. I would have to travel across Venice in the stinking, stifling midday heaviness, but by God, Lissavetta was worth it.

"Going out, Mr. Box?"

Silently, I questioned Charlie's intellect. It was perfectly clear that I was going out, and I knew from experience that his powers of observation were excellent. There was really no reason for him to query my movements. "Well spotted, Charles. I am, indeed, going out." I permitted myself a small smile, settled my hat at an appropriately rakish angle, and picked up my gloves. "I have something very particular in mind for Lissavetta di Borghese."

***

On my way back to the Palazzo, my purchases settled securely in the inside pocket of my jacket, I was somewhat startled to find myself whistling, if you please, a rather jaunty little ditty.

Aloud.

In public.

In Venice.

***  
As I had anticipated, my dreary studio was greatly enlivened by the contessa's presence. At first, she flitted around, exclaiming with delight over every splash of paint on the bare floorboards, but eventually consented to take a seat on the somewhat elderly chaise longue in the window bay, where the winter sunlight could stream in to caress her perfect features as she watched the goings on along the Grand Canal, several storeys below. On several occasions I was very nearly distracted from my work by the soft shadow emphasising the swell of her breasts, porcelain perfection rising gently above the neckline of her gown.

A musical sigh escaped her parted lips, and I laid down my charcoal, crossing the room towards her as if drawn by that beautiful sound. "Madonna, do forgive me. Am I tiring you?" I enquired anxiously, smiling my concerned smile. "Perhaps you are cold?"

"Oh, no! No!" she disclaimed immediately, turning her gaze full on me. It was more than enough to heat the small room. "I was theenk of Carnevale."

Crossing the room to close the window (opened earlier to allow the turpentine fumes to escape should I somehow manage to progress to oils at our first sitting), I plucked the contessa's shawl from the chair, and tenderly draped it around her creamy shoulders. "Do you attend, this year?"

"Ees not decide," she said, mournfully, sending me a wistful glance. "The count, he not like..."

I nodded understandingly, and turned to the tray of drinks Charlie had set out before her arrival. "Perhaps...a glass of water? Before we resume."

She looked as shocked as if I'd offered her carte blanche. "Water ees not for drink!"

"Then maybe something stronger?" I smiled my warm smile, and lifted the bottle I had purchased just for her.

***

By the third sitting, Lissavetta and I were on first name terms, and her fondness for amaretto was firmly established. She was even more charming on closer acquaintance, although she insisted in speaking her pretty, broken English rather than allowing me to converse with her in Italian. I found that I really had no objection to that. In fact, I found it utterly bewitching, combined with the fluttered gestures of her hands that accompanied her search for the right words, and the way her perfect, pearly white teeth caught at the fullness of her lip when she failed.

I was about to propose myself as her escort to the first night of Carnevale, when her words trailed into silence, and she pressed the back of one delicate hand to her forehead. My brush fell to the desk beside me with a clatter, and I sprang up, rounding the easel in a single bound but too late! Her hands fell to press against her stomach, her eyes met mine, her lips parted, and a dreadful gasp escaped as she doubled over, retching.

Shouting for Charlie, I raced to her side, holding her as best I could, stroking hair back from her clammy face. "Madonna...Lissavetta!"

The brave soul managed a weak smile before the next spasm took her, and Charlie skidded through the doorway, a look of alarm painted on his angelic features. "What is it, Mr. Box?" he exclaimed.

"Charlie, thank God," I cried, tightening my hold on the convulsing contessa. "We need a doctor for Contessa di Borghese. Hurry, man!"

But the contessa shook her head. Well, she was shaking generally, but the head movements were more determined. "No, ees...must...mia casa..." she panted, eyes rolling horribly.

"Of course," I agreed immediately. "Charlie, a gondola for the contessa and myself. Pronto!"

It was a nightmare journey, even once we'd half-carried the poor creature down the stairs to the palazzo's private quay and loaded her into the gondola. At several points, I wasn't even certain whether she would live long enough to reach her home. Yet somehow, she did, to be met by a frantic flurry of attendants who hurried her away inside, leaving me standing in the gondola, desperately trying to remain upright against the infernal rocking of the Grand Canal. "Tell the lady I'll call!" I shouted, sinking back to the cushions that still held the sweet perfume of her presence.

The gondolier simply snorted, and began to pole us back towards my rooms.

***

Charlie was waiting for me when I achieved the top of the stairs, my emotions quite wrung with the uncertainty of Lissavetta's survival. I paused in the doorway, gazing at the chaise where she had so recently been sitting, and barely repressed a superstitious shudder. Could it possibly be that I would never see her again?

"Mr. Box?" A hand closed on my shoulder, the scent of honey surrounded me and I looked up into the bluest eyes in Christendom. "You don't half reek, Mr. Box."

I suppose I should have chided him for making such personal comments to his employer, but I couldn't deny the truth of his words. "I know, Charlie," I murmured, my voice heavy with the weight of my soul. "I know."

He drew me into the room, and folded me in his arms - a liberty I rarely permit - allowing me to ignore the half-finished portrait still propped on the easel. "You just sit yourself down, and I'll draw you a nice bath, how's that?"

Maybe he was taking to his life as a servant, after all.

***  
The next week was absolute agony for me. I rose before noon every day to travel to the steps of the contessa's casa in quest for news of her health, in the vain hope that I might be permitted to see her. Every morning, I was turned away with only the faintest shred of information, the barest thread: "she lives". I was desperate for more detail, to know how she truly fared, shrugged aside by servants and doctors alike who must have considered me a madman. The same gondolier ferried me back and forth each day, sometimes three or four times, with notes, gifts, flowers and increasingly frantic pleas for reports on the languishing Lissavetta.

My only comfort in that hellish week was Charlie's constant presence, reassuringly unchanged in his sulks, posturing and demands. He bore my black moods with the patience of a hyperactive child - in other words, none whatsoever. He set food in front of me several times daily and glared at me until I at least attempted to eat. He took me to bed each night as dawn's cold, grey fingers caressed the starry skies, with tart comments about needing beauty sleep.

It was his bullying that drove me back to working on Lissavetta's portrait, attempting to recreate the mischievous light in her eyes from the pictures that were, oh, so clear in my memory. I was shading the delicate rose tint of her cheeks when the summons arrived - not by note, but by messenger. The greasy little man cast disparaging glances around my rooms, and announced, "The Contessa di Borghese weesh to see Signore Box."

My heart began to beat painfully hard in my chest, making it hard to draw breath, and I paused for an instant before starting up, grabbing for my hat and gloves, calling for Charlie who, for once, appeared with admirable promptness, my overcoat folded over his arm.

"No," the messenger disagreed flatly, presumptuously placing one filthy hand on Charlie's chest to push him back. "She weesh to see only Signore Box."

If I hadn't been so impatient to see Lissavetta again, I would have argued that point, merely on principle, but my eagerness carried me forwards. "Yes, yes," I said quickly. "Let us _go_, my good man."

***  
Heavy curtains swathed every window in the contessa's house, adding darkness to the general lack of air and the perpetual foul odour arising from dampness and the proximity of the canal. Thick carpeting muffled my footsteps, and the flickering, uneven light of the guttering lamps made my head spin even as I was escorted up the wide marble staircase and along another dim hallway to a dark, ornately carved door.

The footman bowed to me, knocked politely on the door once, and then opened it, standing back to allow me to enter as he announced me: "Signore Lucifer Box, Contessa."

The door closed softly behind me with a whisper of well-oiled hinges, and I stepped further into the room.

I had been expecting a sitting room, perhaps a parlour or solar. Lissavetta always seemed to thrive in sunlight, and so I had anticipated tall windows with light, feminine drapes. Instead, the room was as dark as the corridor I had just left, and a low thrill ran through me as I realised that I had, in fact, been ushered into the contessa's bedchamber.

In direct contrast to the crisp bright day outside, the bedchamber was stiflingly warm. A fire crackled hopefully in the grate, reflected in several large mirrors. In front of each mirror was a gently glowing lamp, and on the far side of the room, another lamp sat on a delicate dressing table, softly illuminating the four-poster bed. In the bed, propped up with a hundred pillows, was my lady Lissavetta.

Even in the low light, her beauty shone. Her hair, loose in a tumbled cloud around her head and shoulders, glowed, casting a halo around her charming face, giving her the luminous appearance of an angel fallen to earth. How fitting, then, that the first word I heard from her perfect lips was my name. "Lucifer," she murmured faintly. "I not think you come."

"Of course I came, madonna," I protested fervently, doffing my hat and gloves, discarding them on a chair. "I have been here every day for you."

I was scarcely aware of crossing the room towards her, my eyes fixed upon her drawn countenance. She must truly have been close to death in those dark days we were parted, for it seemed that even raising her little hand for me to kiss took great effort. I clasped it tenderly in both of my own, falling to my knees beside her.

"You use to call my name," she whispered, with a tiny, pained smile.

"Lissavetta," I corrected myself immediately, smiling my devoted smile. "And are you recovering? I have been quite beside myself with worry. To be taken so ill, so suddenly..."

She shook her head, withdrawing her hand. "Not ill."

I sat back on my heels, and frowned. "But surely, madonna..."

"Poison," she hissed, eyes suddenly cold. "You think an Italian not know of poison, Signore Box?"

My heart dropped like lead (a poison that I have never yet employed), and a chill crept along my spine. "My dear, you have been very ill, your imagination is...oh, bugger!"

I fell backwards in my haste to get away as she reached behind her and, from among the small mountain of lace-edged pillows, drew a wickedly sharp-looking stiletto blade. Lamplight glinted evilly off its gleaming point. "Not ill, Signore. Poison. The same poison I use on my husband!"

Well, that one had been left out of the report. If I ever made it out of this blasted city, I would have to severely reprimand old Sir Joshua, because that was precisely the kind of fact that a chap liked to know when going about assassinating a beautiful woman. "Ah," I managed lamely, shunting across the floor on a doubtless very expensive rug.

"Is the best you do, Lucifer Box?" she taunted, throwing aside the bedcovers with more strength than I'd have credited her with, considering the quantity of arsenic she'd imbibed just over a week earlier. Evidently the Italians really did know about poisons. "Is 'ah' the best you do, the best final words?"

I wasn't exactly planning on them being final, but the crazy contessa did have a point, in addition to the deadly one she was wielding in an alarmingly steady hand. "What the devil is this?" I cried, stumbling to my feet.

Lovely, lissom Lissavetta, wearing only a diaphanous white nightgown through which the lamps clearly and distractingly picked out her sylph-like silhouette, advanced on me, her knife raised high. "But _you_ are devil, Lucifer!" She laughed, and I wondered what the blazes she'd used as antidote. I was beginning to suspect mercury. "You try kill me. I return favour!"

"Much obliged to you, I'm sure," I retorted. It hardly seemed any kind of favour from my perspective, being that of an unarmed man, my precious pearl-handled pistol abandoned in my studio in my rush to see her, not even a blade to mar the line of my elegant suit. At least she seemed to be in no rush to kill me, content to stalk me around the room. A true professional would have slit my throat already, but I knew that the lady's expertise lay in the use of firearms, not blades. And also, apparently, chemicals.

"You think I not know infamous Lucifer Box?" she continued, pursuing my retreat. (That stung. I had hoped for 'notorious', at least, but I dare say the word was beyond her knowledge of the English language.) "I come to Venezia, I make new start, I poison new husband and you, _you_ appear!"

My back collided with something very solid, and I stopped abruptly, risking a quick glance behind me. Damn. A wall. To be frank, she'd done us rather a good turn in killing off old di Borghese, but the prospect of the old fellow's money, influence, and arms factories under the control of Lissavetta Giuliana gave the Empire's powers-that-be the screaming abdabs.

"A spot of sightseeing?" I offered, my hands flattening against the wall, exploring, desperately searching for any kind of weapon, or a secret panel through which I could make my escape. No such luck. When I looked back, she was closer still, almost in striking distance. My head swam from the heat of the room and lack of air, and light danced dizzily off the blade.

She threw me a scornful look. "You? See sights?" It was a good point, if rather clumsily made. Unlike the stiletto that held most of my attention. That was a good point excellently made. "So I arrange meeting. Almost, _almost_ I believe you artist!"

"I _am_ an artist!" I yelled in fury, pushing away from the wall. I had to make a break for it. If she trapped me here, I'd have no chance of escape. I lunged at her, grabbing for her wrist to keep the knife firmly away from my body, but she twisted free of me, and a hot, bright line across my arm let me know that her blade had found a mark. Rolling away and to my feet, I cursed aloud at the realisation that she was still between myself and the door. And that beyond that door was an entire house full of Lissavetta's servants, probably revoltingly loyal to her.

The lethal lady laughed again, her melodic laugh tainted by the harsh edge of hysterics. "You _were_ artist, Lucifer!"

That didn't sound at all promising. Firmly ignoring the slow trickle of blood down my arm, I dodged another slash of the knife, and found myself opposite Lissavetta, the width of her generous bed between us. It felt like some kind of buffer, until she leaped onto it, knife outstretched towards me. Biting off another curse, I launched myself at her legs, bringing her down, and reached up to wrap a hand in her hair. She screeched, lashing out again with the knife, and I pulled harder, my heart pounding, my breath harsh and heavy as I pinned her down with my body weight. All trace of beauty was gone from her face, features twisted by purest hate and yet the struggles of her body beneath mine, the undulations of her splendid bosom, were still distracting. Even like this, she was magnificent.

It was a dreadful shame that she had to die.

Holding the knife-holding hand down on the slippery satin bedcovers, I untangled my other hand from her sweet, silky hair, reaching up to grab one of the pillows. "I really am most terribly sorry," I told her breathlessly, and pressed it over her face.

The muffled noises were ghastly as she writhed under me, rage and desperation muted by the soft pillow. Her slender legs kicked more and more feebly, until at last she lay limp, still and silent. I leaned forwards, moving to press harder on the pillow. No chances - except her body convulsed massively, her arm jerking up to plant the stiletto firmly in my thigh.

"Fuck!" I cried, and flung the pillow to the side, both hands twisting in her long, gorgeous curls. A sharp twist and a sickening crack, and she lay still at last, her face flushed dark, her hand flopping back to lie on the mattress.

I clutched at my thigh, rolling free of the contessa's corpse. I had to be certain that the knife would stay in place until I had leisure to treat it properly, otherwise I'd be as lively as the late Lissavetta, my blood leaving a clear trail for anyone to follow. Indiscreet enough to leave a broken-necked body behind me. I didn't need to leave any more clues for my pursuers, who were already pounding on the locked door.

Tearing a strip from the sheets, I bound my memento of Lissavetta firmly into place and experimented with standing. Sweat poured from my pores, stinging in the slice on my arm, and I faltered, grasping at the bed post, then snatched my hand away from unexpected heat. A quick glance told me that the carelessly discarded pillow had knocked the lamp onto the mattress, and flames were licking at the bed, oil spilling across towards the mortal remains of Lissavetta Giuliana. Well, that was one problem taken care of. The oil would act as an accelerant, and her body would burn, extinguishing any signs that her death had been anything other than an accident when her bedside lamp toppled.

At least, as long as I could remove myself from the scene post haste.

There was no point in trying to make my escape through the house. Even if it weren't for the crowd of people beyond the door, the fire was catching fast enough to bar my passage in that direction. There was only one option left to me.

I dropped to the ground, gritting my teeth against the jarring pain in my leg, and lowering my face as much as I could against the smoke that was beginning to fill the room. I had to get out! Inch by frustratingly slow inch, I dragged myself towards the curtains, which yielded to my tug, revealing the window I had hoped for. Beyond and below, the fetid waters of the Grand Canal churned, grey and uninviting - and yet, far more inviting than the prospect of being burnt to a cinder. With the last of my strength, I hurled myself against the window, feeling it shatter around me as I fell, down, interminably down, into the cold, smelly water.

I had barely enough time to catch a deep breath of stinking air, and then the water closed around me, the chill shock driving what little breath I had from my lungs in the instant before I sank below the surface. With one arm and one leg out of commission, I struggled to reverse my movement, straining upwards towards the dim and distant light of Venice's sky, so close and yet so far! My chest was burning with the hunger for air, my head close to bursting, a hideous throbbing signalling the currents of the canal pulling greedily at the stiletto still lodged in my thigh and ruining what had been a perfectly cut pair of trousers.

Just as my fingers broke the surface, the dark shadow of a gondola hove into view. It was no good; I simply had to breathe or die. Taking the risk that the gondola could be manned by the contessa's followers, I forced myself upwards with my good arm, gasping in air as soon as my mouth rose above the water line.

Indistinct voices shouted above me, and I prepared to dive again, until one voice separated itself from the mess of noise. A throaty, blessedly familiar voice calling my name. "Mr. Box! Mr. Box! _Lucifer!_"

I coughed out a quart of canal water, opened my mouth to reply, raised my hand, and promptly sank again. By the time I regained the surface, the gondolier's pole was close enough to grab, and the face belonging to the voice was peering anxiously in my direction. "Hello, Charlie," I said, breezily. "I think it's time to leave Venice. Something in the water disagrees with me."

And then I fainted.

**Author's Note:**

> Lucifer Box and his world are copyright Mark Gatiss, may he live to write many more of his adventures. No infringement intended, no profit being made.


End file.
